She Was So Fragile
by Crow Dish
Summary: Enjolras reflects on the life of his young servant girl. Noncanon.


"Is there anything you need, master?" Enjolras felt his shoulders jump slightly even at the soft voice of the small girl. He took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds, trying to keep his patience intact as he twisted around so as to meet eyes with the gamine.

"Non, Isabella, and I'll remind you once more – don't sneak up on people." His voice was quiet but it sounded dangerous and he saw his servant cower faintly, but she still didn't break her gaze. She was waiting for him to continue talking, he could tell by her somewhat faltering expression, even if he was only going to continue to lecture her. Her willingness to be yelled at made him feel vaguely guilty for yelling at her – it was not unlike the feeling of hitting someone who would not fight back. Still, the guilt didn't plague him. "You nearly made me drop my quill. Can't you see I'm writing a speech, Isabella? I need to concentrate."

The girl shivered and inhaled sharply, brushing a lock of grimy red hair out of her pale face with a shaking hand. "I… I'm sorry, master," she whispered in reply, almost incoherently, still staring wide-eyed at the blonde man.

He exhaled loudly, some of the fierceness dropping out of his eyes. "It's alright, just don't do it again." Despite his assurances, he still sounded stern and somewhat irritated. He patted the girl once on the head, then pushed gently at her shoulder, knowing she wouldn't move until she was explicitly told. "Go away, Isabella."

"Y… yes, master." She slunk out of his vision and he turned back to his speech, studying it intently, but he couldn't bring himself to bring the quill back to the parchment.

Enjolras wasn't technically Isabella's master, though she was his servant. To be entirely honest, he knew very little about the girl, other than taking her word on what she'd told him. She was fifteen, she said, though he would've guessed younger by her appearance and behavior. She lived on the streets, she said, and had no family, but she wouldn't elaborate any further and he didn't ask. Every once and a while, he'd be able to catch in her dialogue a glance of a true gamine that assured him she was telling him the truth, though mostly she had the meek mannerisms of one in servitude. She'd approached him on the campus and asked him to let her help. He'd been surprised, and at first he'd turned her down, but she wouldn't take no for an answer. That was the only time she'd ever disagreed with him. She was useful. She was obedient. She was employed, without a contract, for no pay other than room and board. Most of all, though, there was love in her eyes whenever she used them to look at her master. He rarely gave her a second glance.

She listened to stories of the Republic. She begged for them, actually.

Breathing slowly, Enjolras turned his head slightly to watch her for a moment, her thin form plunked unceremoniously in a small heap of cloth that was placed in the far corner of the room. Shadows lurked there, the only light in the room being the small flame playing happily in the lantern that sat on the desk. He saw the people he was fighting for.

It was Courfeyrac, surprisingly, who first brought up the fact that the one who was fighting for the oppressed was oppressing his own. He'd already known.

He'd only tried to set her free once. One night he'd pushed too hard, literally. She'd fallen to the floor with a crash, tears trickling down her cheeks. She was so fragile.

"Go!" Enjolras had screamed, pointing at the door. "You don't belong here, being a slave!"

"Non!" she'd shrieked, sobbing, and he'd never heard such grief in her voice. "I work for you! I'm your servant!"

He'd stared incredulously at her. "You're free now, go!"

"Non! Non! Don't do this!" She'd managed to crawl over to him, letting herself collapse in hysterics at his feet. "I'm your servant, your servant…" She'd continued to mumble incomprehensibly as he picked her up and nestled her into her bed of blankets, not stopping even after she'd fallen asleep.

She was so fragile.

Isabella often dreamed about the Republic. He knew from listening to her fond mutterings during the night. He never told her that she talked in her sleep.

The bruises she'd gained that night had faded into mere memories, but he never forgot the grief in her voice. He realized that he couldn't fight hard enough. He couldn't imagine wanting freedom for others, but not for one's self. As long as Isabella was alive, at least one person would still be oppressed.

"Isabella?" he asked quietly, and he was surprised to hear that his voice was gentle.

He could barely see her in the declining light, but he heard her tender squeak. "Yes master?"

There was a long pause. She was his own personal link to the cause he was fighting for and he wanted to ask her so many questions. What was she trying to save? What did she think she deserved? Why was she content to take orders day after day?

"Get some sleep," he said instead, knowing everything would be back to normal the next morning.

She breathed relief. "Yes, master."

He watched her carefully lay herself down on her pile of blankets. She was so fragile.

"Goodnight, Isabella."

She sniffed. "Goodnight, master."

He went back to his speech.


End file.
